At the Edge of the Woods

In the mornings, when my thoughts have not yet arranged themselves into their familiar malevolent shapes and the day is still unformed, I wake up before dawn and sheathe myself in layer upon layer of coarse, heavy clothing, and walk deep into the woods while my eyes adjust to the velvety darkness. In time I have learned the path’s duplicitous ways—its thorns and unsteady footholds and half-seen creatures have become better known to me lately than my own reflection, which with the passing of the years has departed so much from the image I expect to see staring back that steeling myself to face it has become a daily penance, a source of horror so visceral and intense that for the ensuing minutes it taints all other considerations. But in the trees here there are no mirrors, or others in whose glances I can see myself reflected, only the astringent cold stinging my eyes and the soft sweet smell of growth and decay.

As I walk my blood runs warm through my veins and my body starts to sweat, and within minutes I need to remove the first layer, which I fumble to tie around my waist underneath my leather bag. My muscles guide me through the branches and into an opening, the grass high and rough against my legs, and the first signs of light begin to glimmer in the sky, the starry blackness fading to a dark gray. I have a sip of water, chilled and scratchy against the back of my throat, and walk to the end of the path, where the steps begin. The first fifteen minutes are some of the steepest and so I pace myself, ensuring my boots have gripped onto each cracked wooden slat before moving to the next, and while it now takes me longer to become out of breath than the first time I did this walk all those months ago, here is where I get the first ferrous tang of blood in my mouth. I stop at a platform to look back at the view starting to be visible below, while I remove another layer and eat half a pastry, stale from the day before, which dissolves into a sugary paste that masks the bitter metallic aftertaste.

The next half hour is an arduous and constant uphill climb. Some days this is where other early-morning hikers come into view, aging mountaineers intoning “buongiorno” or the occasional startled villager. I have come to recognize a few regulars, often so deep in thought that they—as I expect I must—appear lost in a faraway realm, and we pass each other in silence with a perfunctory nod. I try not to imagine the version of me they see, all matted fabric and dirt and ill-concealed truculence, and march on, the hard ground crunching beneath me like gravel. At the top of the steps the paths widen out and it becomes once again easy to disappear into the forest without encountering anyone, a moment that fills me each day with immense relief. At this stage the adrenaline has started to kick in, overpowering the soreness in my legs and the stiffness in my joints, and as I make my way off the path and weave through the overgrown thicket, my thoughts at last begin to disperse. Often, a snippet of a phrase I read the previous night will get stuck in my head, repeating over and over like an incantation until the words have lost all meaning.

This is where I eat the second half of the pastry, which sits warm and satisfying in my stomach; I can feel it become fuel almost instantly as it descends, replenishing the energy I have used during the morning’s climb. Not long afterward, I will normally feel the need to relieve myself in a secluded corner of the woods, something that at first filled me with great shame but which I now regard as an animalistic ritual I enact without much thought yet not without relish. I clean myself with paper I have brought with me; if I run out, I have learned which leaves to use and which to avoid. The dangers latent in the mountain, at first masked by its majestic grandeur, have slowly revealed themselves to me; I am more fearful of it now, but wiser to the ways it conceals its threats. If I do not disturb it, I think, it will allow me to pass unharmed.

As I proceed up through the forest, I try not to retread my steps, each day tracking a new pathway through the undergrowth, but time and time again I find myself heading to one of three endpoints I have come to favor. Once I reach the top of the pass, I stop to consider the view beneath me. Sometimes, I gaze over the peaks, the trees, the lake in the distance, the gossamer clouds billowing out in bruises of blue and pink, purple and gold, the horizon a clear gleam like a lamp shining behind a pale yellow veil, branches snaking in front of it like the centerpiece of a stained glass window, and the view fills me with awe, with the sense of being fully alive and as though the beauty in the world might, after all, make up for its endless disappointments; once or twice, the sight has left me lost for words, breathless, as though I might be approaching something meaningful but just out of reach. Most days, I look down, my feet aching and calloused, sweat coalescing on my back and armpits and groin, my throat dry and raw with exertion, and I feel nothing at all.

Back in the village, I make myself smaller, softer, amenable to human interaction. I change into neat, clean clothes and widen my mouth into a smile, which I practice in the mirror until it is meek and becoming. I feel myself once again turning into the docile girl I was brought up to be, a performance I find both calming and degrading. I greet the butcher’s assistant and the tavern boy and they respectfully nod in my direction, unsure where to direct their gaze. As I pass them I rehearse in my head the small talk I will attempt with the shopkeeper, whose usual mode of address to me communicates both obsequiousness and an undercurrent of disdain, a demeanor he adopts toward all things unfamiliar to him. In time, I think, I will win him over, even if it takes until every hair on my head has turned to gray. Once I am old, the kind of old that makes the young and healthy turn away, our encounters will be seamless, routine; intimate, almost—if I ever break through to his carefully guarded inner circle of clientele, that is.

“Morning, miss.” A cheerful singsong, thick black moustache leering over fleshy lips. “And how are we today?” Ostensibly polite words, yet delivered in a tone so steeped in reverence as to imply the very opposite. He thinks I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’ve seen him with his favored customers: patter honed over decades into a smooth barrage of in-jokes and mutual insults, not at all like this specious performance.

“All right, Gianfranco.” Casual, but aloof enough to denote that I’ve perceived his discourtesy. “Had an early start, managed to get up to the pass before ten. How about yourself?” I know his game. I am giving nothing away.

“Oh you know.” He puffs up with a theatrical display of stoicism. “The usual complaints. What can I do you for today?”

The same lubricious line every time, the same flicker of loathing commingled with lust.

I give him my order: cured ham, tinned fish, eggs, bread, pastries, two bottles of red wine. I watch him as I order the wine, daring him to comment on it, as he did the first few times.

“Naturally, m’lady,” he slithers, unctuous as an eel. His meaty fingers move quickly and skillfully through the products, squeezing and weighing and slicing and wrapping until everything is packed together in a brown paper bag, which he passes over the counter to me. I settle up and flash him my kindest smile; I am no threat to you, this smile says. A few more years of these and he will come around to me, I am certain of it.

I emerge from the shop and into the street, slick with rain from an unexpected shower that broke out as I approached the village. The paving stones reflect the sun into my eyes and I instinctively close them for a few seconds, breathing in the dampness in the air. I cross into the piazza, where the fruit and vegetable carts are packing up for the morning and women are setting up stalls with flowers and dusty bric-a-brac: old dolls, picture frames, lopsided jewelry. I wave at a few familiar faces with my spare hand, the paving slabs smooth and treacherous under my feet. The stench of wet horse manure comes through in waves, weaving between the sweet aroma from the bakery and the pile of discarded vegetables spoiling in the sun.

I turn down the side street next to the church and start my ascent toward the outskirts, passing the pharmacy on the way. The houses here become smaller, their angles increasingly precarious, the passers-by more infrequent and lugubrious with every corner I pass. Although everything appears calm and orderly, in these streets I find myself momentarily filled with a dull dread, as though those around me were congregating for a funeral, the church bells tolling thuddingly behind me.

Within a few minutes I arrive at the stream that marks the outer limit of the village; past the bridge I can see the Rossettis’ farm, their brown mastiff starting his customary cacophony of aggression whenever I come near. I tighten my grip on the bag and hurry past, my feet firmer now on the rough ground, dank and reassuringly grainy.

“Good boy, Bruno,” I repeat over and over, in a tone not dissimilar to the one I used in the shop earlier. “Who’s a good boy?” Tilting his wrinkled head to one side, Bruno stops barking, sniffs the air, and resumes with renewed ferocity.

After the farm I pass through the field leading into the woods, where the incline steepens. To the right is a dirt track weaving through the trees; I exhale as I leave the morning behind, allowing the smile to dissolve from my face. My feet move automatically, spurred by a newfound reserve of energy. I step into the shade as the birdsong surrounds me, lizards scurrying away as I approach. The branches creak as though to welcome me back, the leaves dappling the sunlight like fine embroidery. I walk along the path until it forks into two; I turn left onto the neglected passageway that leads into the clearing where my lodgings are.

When I first tried to rent the cabin, the landlord refused to countenance it: this is no place for a woman to live alone, he insisted—far too isolated, more of a hut than a house, not safe at all. After much wrangling, a discreet gratuity and the assurance that my husband was due to join me at any moment, the elderly man relented, on the proviso that I stop by his palazzo once a month to give him an update on how I’m getting along, a trip I never embark on empty-handed. If the villagers whisper about the arrangement, they do so out of earshot.

The previous tenant, a former soldier of few words and dubious provenance, had left it in a state of disrepair, departing suddenly after a gruesome hunting accident. Accounts vary: some say his rifle went off as he was walking and destroyed part of his foot, others believe he blinded himself in one eye after attempting to take his own life, others still that he mistook someone for a deer and buried the body in the woods. Either way, his name is only ever uttered in a hoarse whisper, as if telling ghost stories to a group of children assembled around a fireplace. Most of the time, he is referred to simply as il mostro.

“At the Edge of the Woods is a rare novel: beautifully attuned to both the mysteries of the natural world and of human consciousness, at once cool and intense, suspenseful and surprising. Just when you think you know where Laura’s story is headed the forest path twists, uncovering a world resplendent with ghosts, secrets, and dangerously deep wells of feeling. Kathryn Bromwich is a thrilling new talent.” laura van den berg, author of i hold a wolf by the ears

With its dexterity and appreciation for the natural world, its slow-burn tension and thematic considerations of illness, femininity and alienation, At the Edge of the Woods calls to mind the work of Richard Powers, ClaireLouise Bennett and Shirley Jackson, while revealing Kathryn Bromwich as a spectacular and singular talent.

“Heady and headlong, Bromwich’s deliciously witchy debut unspools with the force and confidence of a spell, conjuring an indelible portrayal of one woman’s quest for selfhood through solitude.”

—hermione hoby, author of virtue & neon in daylight

“Kathryn Bromwich’s prose brings us an unnerving and tenacious voice, a remarkable protagonist. In this brilliant novel, the wild is never far away but we have more to fear from so-called civilisation. An unnerving and exhilarating book that gave me goosebumps. It made me want to take off into the forest!” —helen mort, author of black car burning

“Touches on issues of alienation, illness, womanhood, nature and community, in sensuous prose that delights and disturbs. An offbeat, beguiling debut.” luiza sauma, author of flesh and bone and water

ISBN 978-1-953387-31-8 $26.00